


Prologue: Deep Water in Dark Eyes

by orphan_account



Series: Life on the Livewire [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BAMF Stiles, Biting, Blow Jobs, Description of wound, Drug Use, Drunk Sex, Gunshot Wounds, Intoxication, Loss of Erection, M/M, Medical Drugs, Medical Jargon, Needles, Spy Stiles, Suicidal Thoughts, Trust Issues, all violence is off screen, isn't actually a dark fic, reckless behavour, use of medicine on another without consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-10 17:35:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8926117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "it was those moments when the whole world felt like it had skipped beat, when he felt out of sync of reality, those really kept him up at night. Kept him up wondering how he could live with his decisions; worst of all, they kept him up wondering how he’d live without the high."Coming off the back of a hard job, Stiles indulges in bad decisions.Somehow Peter is the one who gets caught up in it.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RebaK1tten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RebaK1tten/gifts).



> Lions & Tigers & Bears (oh my!), what an adventure this fic turned out to be.  
> This fic is a gift to my lovely secret santa giftee rebak1tten, who mentioned in their 'likes' murder boyfriends. Whereby I went into a spiral of "murder boyfriends, murder, people who kill others, spies kill people, Stiles can be a spy, and Peter is his boyfriend." 
> 
> Un/fortunately I got absolutely absorbed in the universe and the plot spun out of control (hello 14k long doc). To make sure I have something solid and finished as a gift, I curated the 'first part' into a prologue, and will post the rest as a sequel. 
> 
> See the end (spoilers) for some in depth warnings if you're unsure about the tags. I was overzealous with the tags just for safety (especially because this is a gift). The fic is not darker than Teen Wolf as a show, I just tagged everything.

 

## It started with a bullet in the leg and encapsulated morphine swallowed down with whisky. Like all the best worst decisions Stiles had made in his life.

 

It was almost three a.m. when Stiles made it to one of his bolt holes. He didn’t like to visit an apartment so close to home after a job - mainly because he actually liked this one - but he almost didn’t make it through customs earlier that night thanks to his injury. _“No miss, trust me. I’m fine, I have a private doctor… Is the airline going to pay for my medical bills? No? Then you should just let me go.”_ Besides, he wasn’t completely certain that they’d let him on another domestic flight to get to the Dallas house - where he’d previously planned to lay low.

 

Phoenix, Arizona: only a few hours away from his childhood home of Beacon Hills, and the location of probably the fourth apartment he’d ever bought. It was his only alternative, and even then only accessible due to a connection he had at the airborne postal service that covered the West Coast. Without it, Stiles wouldn’t have managed to make it that far from San Diego, where his flight had landed. Ironically he didn’t come to the apartment very often _because_ he’d spent so long decorating it and pouring his heart into the art choices. The more time he spent there the more likely he’d have to burn it down some day.

 

“Shit!” he shouted, accidentally knocking the entire contents of the bathroom cupboard into the sink as he scrabbled about for more morphine. He had some medical grade heroin under his bed and three clean syringes ready for his convenience, but that wasn’t a road he wanted to go down again. Not tonight anyway.

 

He dragged himself and the medical kit into the living room and hit a lamp on to give himself a better look at his leg. Stiles had wrapped his thigh under almost a mile of bandages to help cover the bleeding for the flight, but, in the end, it had still seeped through and saturated his pant leg.

 

"Pretty fucking stupid they even let me on," he drawled to himself, "If I had bled out, they'd probably have had a beast of a lawsuit on their hands." Not that Stiles really minded, it made his job much easier that so many airlines were lax - or simply clueless - on who or what they let on their planes.

 

Getting his trousers off was no easy feat, the blood had fused the lightweight woolen material (Stiles only wore the best suits on the job, it helped people forget that he had the face of a twelve year old) to the bandages. In the end, he opted to take the knife he had strapped to his shin and just sliced through the pant leg.

 

"That's another three grand gone, I doubt I'll get it back via expenses."

 

Stiles spent a lot of time on his own over the past six years, and talking to himself was probably a habit he’d picked up in the first year. Nothing too detailed, just in case his room was bugged, but enough to feel like he had _someone_  there listening and caring.

 

"Fuck, okay, too self indulgent with that line of thinking. I should definitely pep up."

 

The only bourbon Stiles had in the house was Bulleit, and although it wasn't particularly expensive, it seemed a waste to drink it as a pain mollifier. All the same, he leaned over to snatch the bottle from the teak wood sideboard. He whipped the lid off, failing to watch where it landed - the bottle wouldn't last the night anyway - before popping two more morphine capsules in his mouth, and chasing them down with the liquor. As soon as the pills passed his throat, he moved the bottle and tipped the auburn liquid over the bandage.

 

" _Mother Fucker!!_ " he shouted, as the pain spun through him like an electric shot. It turned the constant unending burn of hurt into a fire-hot stab, reminding him _exactly_ where the bullet had entered, and where he had dug it out with his own fingers, only five hours previous.

 

"I need to learn to carry my own forceps," he grumbled in memory, even _his_ stomach made an uncomfortable leap when he thought about digging his fingers into the bloody, spongy mess that was his muscle tissue.

 

The alcohol had done its job though, and the dried blood finally had a little bit more give to it, allowing him to gingerly slide his knife through the bandages to reveal the wound. Stiles was a little dizzy by the time he reached skin, when he could finally examine at the four hasty stitches he had employed earlier that night. They wound looked angry. He’d popped one of his stitches and loosened the whole lot while pretending to be relatively uninjured. Liberally he poured some more of the whiskey on it, lamenting that he didn't have any vodka, as it would have soothed his nerves _and_ cleansed the wound, more effectively.

 

Wiping away the blood was difficult as the hole kept on spouting more sluggish red fluid, but Stiles managed to get the area into something that at least looked half ready for new stitches. However his hands were shaking too much to even thread up the needle - let alone begin stitching himself - so he dragged himself over to his pristine granite and chrome kitchenette to look for some amphetamines.

 

"I know I at least had some E in here," Stiles growled, trying to keep his leg up to discourage the bleeding. He found a little bag of speed in his cutlery drawer and decided it would do. He wasn’t the best when on a speed high, but it was the right kind of pick up he needed to counteract the morphine. Stiles cut himself two lines and rolled the rest up in rizla papers to swallow - it would function as slow release - before grabbing a $100 bill to snort the lines. The buzz went straight to his head, and leveled him out. Even though it didn't completely stop the tremors, it did at least give him the confidence to start stitching himself up.

 

It took about an hour in all, to stitch up the wound in eight neat (okay, not very neat) stitches, plaster on some superglue on top (the secret weapon against bullet wounds. Super glue worked in Vietnam, so it'd work for him now) and then to give himself a spray down with the shower head to remove the remaining blood.

 

His whole outfit was a dud now, so he threw it in the corner to be incinerated later. Stiles still had a little bit of unconsumed speed to drop, but he decided to leave it for now, and instead lay upside down on his couch - his legs halfway up the wall in an attempt to subdue the blood flow to his thigh and to let the glue dry without interference.

 

A combination of the morphine, speed, liquor, and general adrenaline had him zoned out for a while, coasting on the feeling of being not quite attached to his body. His leg didn't even hurt any more, none of his body did - he wasn't even entirely sure if he had one anymore. It's almost as if he was hovering above himself, just resting on the air, like the smallest of breezes could have him coasting out the window....

 

A dog barked a few apartments over, and he crashed back into himself.

 

"Fuck, no more morphine, you idiot, if someone jumped you now you'd be dead," Stiles berated himself, climbing off the couch and finding some clothes. He found some loose gym shorts - dark blue with an adidas logo on the hem - and an English football shirt he had apparently decided to stock in this house all those years ago. Maybe he had planned it to be a tourist disguise of some sort, mostly he felt like he was living up to the ‘Polish immigrant’ stereotype that he’d tried for years to separate from himself.

 

The glue was now fully dry, so he re-bandaged his leg in a tight wrap. He wondered idly, as he tied it, how many thousands of miles of bandage he’d used over the years, how many flesh wounds and not-flesh wounds he’d needed to bandage in a rush.

 

It wasn’t really worth thinking about.

 

He did a couple of gentle stretches to see how the glue was holding: good for now, when he made a forward lunge there was the threat of too much tension, but it was doing the trick.

 

Finally he gave himself a minute to take stock of the night. “What a shit show,” he said to himself, grabbing the cigarettes out his bag and walking out onto the balcony.

 

From the minute he entered the Russian consulate in Japan, he had known something was off, the way the security guard had accepted his (fake) passport had been too staged to be unrehearsed. He should have cut his losses and gotten on the first flight out of there, but Stiles’ curiosity had gotten the better of him. At least right now, the worst of his struggles consisted of lighting a cigarette with his useless (damp) matches.

 

Suddenly a strong whistle caught his attention, and his eyes shot up to the balcony attached to the apartment over.

 

“Need a light?” the stranger asked with a bemused drawl, he has a zippo in his hands - a rose gold colour that glinted in the night’s street lights.

 

“Yeah, that’d be great, man.” Stiles called back.

 

The man throws it over - a risky move as it was a four floor drop beneath them - but Stiles expertly caught it all the same and lit up a cigarette.

 

The first inhale had his head swimming, the nicotine reminding him that he had taken probably two grams of speed in the past hour - the majority of it waited in his stomach in slow release.

 

“You just moved in?” The man called over, distracting Stiles from the fact that he could feel his blood hurtling its way from his heart to his head.

 

“Nah, just…. Just away a lot on business.” Stiles said. The drugs were interfering with his ability to keep a cover story floating.

 

The stranger perked an eyebrow at this. “Is that so? I’ve lived here for two years, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen you.”

 

Shit, this is why you have better cover stories, Stiles snapped at his brain.

 

“Yeah, well, I bought the place when at college.” - Stiles quickly spun through the thousands of identities he had and tried to remember if the name he bought this house under had a college degree; he could probably amend it tomorrow... if he remembers that is - “but got my first proper job out in New York with an apartment included. Didn’t want to give this place up though.” He was rambling a little, the last thing you did when you tried to lie to someone - he should know. But the drugs had him defaulting back to his ADHD-controlled methods of communication.

 

“Now that makes sense; with a view like this, who would want to give up this apartment?” The stranger nodded to their surroundings, and Stiles looked out at it - his head spinning, but happy nonetheless. “My name’s Peter.”

 

Names, names, names. They were such a problem. How many thousands of names had Stiles called his own. At times, it was hard to even remember what was on his original birth certificate (or his fourth one, or his Russian one, or the Canadian one…). Stiles really needed to stop taking drugs when there was a risk he might need to speak with a civilian.

 

“My friends call me Tyler,” he bit out, trying to go for the most generic name he could, so he could add it as a middle name to whichever identity bought this apartment. It was beginning to get more complicated now, and the more he changed the backstory to this place, the more likely it was to become traceable. Then he’d lose it and all his art. If he wasn’t careful, he’d lose the box containing the ashes that had been photos of his mother. And wasn’t that tragic, that he kept hold of a photo’s ashes when he had been the one to burn the photos, and they didn’t give him his mother’s actual ashes. And shit, Stiles really needed to stop taking drugs on nights like this. Or if he is going to take them, he might as well go for something strong enough to forget about what _real life_ is.

 

“Tyler’s a cute name, very West Coast. I had you pegged for something more New England with that accent.”

 

Stiles took a deep drag of his cigarette then flicked it over the edge of the balcony. He didn’t like all the questions, but his brain did snag on the fact that the stranger - Peter - called him cute.

 

He lit another cigarette. “I am cute,” Stiles said with a mischievous grin.

 

Peter lets out a deep laugh. “Ah, and very modest I see.”

 

Stiles gave the man a slow grin. Although the world was spinning a little bit, he could see the man perfectly. To be honest, he was gorgeous. Probably pushing forty, but his jaw line and physique did not show it. He wore a close grey henley with a neckline that only spoke of a _very_ confident man. Stiles sucked some more on his cigarette, letting the nicotine push over his buzz.

 

“Sometimes I find being modest just slows you down.”

 

“You like to live life in the fast lane?”

 

Stiles gave an exaggerated shrug that transitioned into a stretch, revealing his well toned stomach just above his shorts’ waistline. Peter’s eyed him openly, unembarrassed to be checking out what Stiles was offering.

 

“Less liking it and more of a necessity. Ever gotten out a car travelling 60 mph?”

 

Peter gave him a laugh with an odd look. “No, have you?”

 

Stiles had, twice in fact. It’s the reason why one of the tattoos on his shoulder blade is missing a chunk of script, the resulting meeting with the concrete had scraped it clean off, along with five inches of skin.

 

“Peter-” Stiles interrupted himself before he tried to tell Peter all about it, “-are you busy tonight?”

 

Peter lit another cigarette with a little box of matches, reminding Stiles that he still had the man’s zippo on his balcony bench.

 

“No, you should come over.”

 

The third cigarette of the night must have hit at the same time that one of his drops of speed dissolved, as Stiles could feel all the worst decisions whispering in his head.

 

“Yeah, let’s do that.”

 

Peter looked as if he was about to turn away to the house - which on another day, when Stiles reflected on this moment, was him assuming that Stiles should go in through his own house and they meet in the hall - Stiles however, with four capsules of morphine, half a bottle of bourbon and two grams of speed in him, climbed onto the balcony wall.

 

He always was a sucker for showing off.

 

A narrow ledge along the building wall connected the two balconies; they were only about two metres apart, and Stiles felt confident in his abilities. That was until his fifth step pulled on his fresh stitches, and his leg went dead.

 

Stiles had felt like he was in freefall for most of his life; it wasn’t normal what he did. His situation, his mother’s lifestyle, what he’d been born into: none of it was safe. Sometimes that was alright, and sometimes that was awful. But it was those moments when the whole world felt like it had skipped beat, when he felt out of sync of reality, those really kept him up at night. Kept him up wondering how he could live with his decisions; worst of all, they kept him up wondering how he’d live without the high.

 

Seconds later, Stiles lands in Peter’s arms, as his undamaged leg clipped the edge of the other balcony enough to propel him forward, into the grip of a man who looked white as a sheet.

 

“Shit, Tyler, what the fuck!”

 

“Wow, hey. You are pretty fucking strong. Like, I knew you looked good, but I wasn’t expecting someone so built.”

 

Stiles slipped his cold hands under the jumper, enjoying the warmth the man gave off and the way Peter let out a little gasp as the coldness hits him.

 

“Do you have a death wish or something?” - maybe.

 

“Nah, I just like to keep things interesting.”

 

Stiles tried to work out how he could convince Peter to bend him over the balcony wall and take advantage of the view they both appreciated so much, but he appeared more intent on interrogating him.

 

“Are you drunk?”

 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Look, let’s get something straight right now. I’ve had a _long_ night, I kinda’ had a bit of accident at work, and they gave me a few painkillers to help take my mind off it. It’s not working that well, do you feel like being a better distraction?”

 

Peter had his lips pursed, it was almost amusing how judgemental he looked when Stiles was currently all up in his business. While Peter had his morality crisis about fucking someone clearly under the influence, Stiles considered if there was still a bag of mephedrone, in the plug socket of his bedroom, to help pass the night away.

 

“Okay, somehow I get the feeling that us fucking is the safest decision you could be making tonight anyway.”

 

“That is a very clever assessment to make Peter.”

 

Peter kissed in all the best ways. His lips were soft, and he was ridiculously dominant when it came to the use of tongue. All the same, the connection was slow, as if more determined to be _thorough_ than anything else. Stiles whined noisily into the man’s mouth, squirming to try and line their bodies up in a way that would be pleasurable for both of them.

 

Peter hitched him up higher on the waist and turned them around so Stiles’ body was pinned against the glass of the balcony door. It allowed him to position Stiles’ body so their erections aligned, and Stiles assented gratefully at the move.

 

Stiles brain was firing in all different arrays as his body took in the pleasure of the actions; it felt like swimming through a thick soup.

 

“Bite me,” Stiles panted out when Peter gave him a moment of air.

 

“Yeah?” Peter quizzed, setting his teeth against the flesh of Stiles’ neck.

 

“Harder,” he whined, trying to kick his body into feeling what was happening.

 

Peter clearly did not mind the challenge and bit heavily into Stiles neck. If Stiles wasn’t drugged up to the nines, he might have probably flinched from the aggression - instead he merely moaned.

 

It set the tone for the night; the next moment Peter walked Stiles into his living room and threw him against the couch. Stiles landed heavily and was quickly flipped over onto his knees - his arms resting on the back of the couch - before Peter followed him down. The motion caused Stiles to hit into the wall harshly, and he did nothing but moan.

 

“You’re fucked in the head, you know that?” Peter said with a laugh.

 

“You have no idea.” Stiles answered and stripped off his shirt, allowing Peter to possessively grope his chest. He bucked his body back up to Peter’s crotch, digging his own fingernails into his palms to keep the pain on edge. Fucking when half your body was numb was not an easy feat, but Stiles wasn’t one to give up.

 

“Tyler. I feel like I should at least ask you why your body looks like a Jackson Pollock painting.” Peter hadn’t stopped kissing his neck and shoulders all the same, and Stiles could feel the moment the man bit hard into the scar tissue in his shoulder blade, his knees going weak in response.

 

“Dude, just shut up. Just- oh, okay, yeah.” Peter’s hand dove down into Stiles shorts. He made a pleased noise when he discovered that Stiles wasn’t wearing any underwear and began pulling on Stiles half-hard cock. If it had been any other night - with a more reasonable level of sobriety - Stiles would have sported a fully hard erection by now, but the morphine was still tampering with his body's ability to respond to pleasure.

 

Peter didn’t seem to mind, or seem particularly phased by the discovery, and instead moved his palm down so he tug on Stiles’ balls.

 

“Fuck!” Stiles cried, the sensitive organs sending a sharp twang through his body, encouraging more blood to his cock.

 

Peter pushed the shorts further down and used his knee to move Stiles’ thighs further apart. “Should I be worried that you appear to be bleeding through your bandage?” Peter was laughing - although to be honest, the sound was more hysterics than mirth. It didn’t stop him from jerking Stiles off.

 

“It’s fine, I can’t feel it.”

 

“I guessed as much, can you feel this?” Stiles keened as Peter pushed two fingers - dry - inside of him.

 

“Yeah, that’s, that’s good.”

 

Peter scissored him for a bit, at times more set on wringing noises from Stiles than actually prepping him. It felt good, better than when Peter had been jerking him off, like the little bundle of nerves inside of him was hardwired to his brain.

 

“You think you’re good?”

 

Stiles nodded. “Use a condom.”

 

Peter laughed behind him. Not unkindly, he said, “Babe, you’re high as a kite and bleeding on my couch. I wouldn’t put it in bareback if you paid me.”

 

Stiles laughed back to him while he heard Peter unwrap the condom and hiss in pleasure as he pushed it on. Stiles was tempted to look back and take in the size of Peter, but Peter was already knocking his legs further apart and pushing his head down to help angle the rest of his body.

 

When the tip of Peter’s cock breached him, Stiles felt it _hard_.

 

“Fuck, fu-uck,” Peter choked out. “I see _some_ of you isn’t well used.”

 

Stiles snorted, but he hissed as the full girth of Peter’s cock dragged his ill-prepared hole open a bit more. It felt good; or more importantly, Stiles _felt_ it through the drugs and alcohol insulating his senses.

 

“That feel good?” Peter checked, his hips rocking in short, little thrusts that only worked the first few inches in and out of Stiles.

 

“Yeah, yeah it does. Just keep on…. Give me more.”

 

Peter answered by snapping his hips forward. They cried out in unison, “Fuck!”

 

Stiles’ dick was still only half-hard, but it didn’t matter because the way Peter dragged him back on his dick was licking at his prostate.

 

“Yeah, like that. Oh, oh, ohh.” Stiles couldn’t keep his mouth in check. At least he wasn’t _saying_ anything. Still, he was so invested in getting off that someone could put a gun to his head and tell him to be quiet, and he’d probably just moan.

 

Peter ploughed into him with long hard strokes, slipping his hands around Stiles chest so he could envelop him and fuck into the slighter man.

 

Soon, Stiles felt like he was nearing something: the heavy-liquid pool of pleasure lapping at his spine, washing over him repeatedly and dragging him closer every time.

 

“Please,” Stiles began, “that’s it, please-please-”

 

Peter answered by biting him hard on the back of the neck, and Stiles screamed in pleasure.

 

It wasn’t the first time Stiles had orgasmed through his prostate, his cock now hard but not in sync with how his body drifted into pure, white pleasure. Instantly his legs felt weak, and he fell forward. Peter, however, had other plans and dragged him up off the couch, so Stiles could lean into his chest.

 

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous Tyler.”

 

Somewhere in Stiles drug- and pleasure-addled brain he wondered who Tyler was.

 

“You’re fucking mess. But fuck, you’re so good. So good, so, so, good.”

 

Stiles could tell Peter was climaxing because the man’s thrusts had become erratic, and after a minute the man collapsed forward enough that his head fell between Stiles’ shoulder blades. Stiles’ ability to feel _anything_ had gone out the window by then however, as he fell down another rabbit hole of morphine-induced bliss.

 

However, the night didn’t really end there About half an hour later, Stiles was brought back to the status quo by Peter handing him a glass of water that he wolfed down desperately. Keeping his eyes on Peter, who appeared to be trying to catalogue all the various cuts, scars and marks the crisscrossed Stiles body. Peter ghosted a hand up Stiles’ chest, hovering at a tattoo that appeared to say “two inches too short” written below a deep scar that sat on the side of Stiles’ ribcage. Gently, Peter moved his hand the requisite two inches to the right, landing where Stiles’ heart was racing.

 

Stiles rolled his eyes at the pinched look on Peter’s face, and slipped off the couch onto his knees so he could give Peter’s cock some attention. Peter had apparently jumped in the shower before rousing Stiles from his morphine-trip because he tasted like clean water and musk, and Stiles moaned appreciatively as Peter quickly hardened in his mouth.

 

The blowjob devolved into round two when Stiles suggested that they retrieve more pills to help get things going. Peter dragged him down to the floor when Stiles made a move to exit back out via the balcony. This led to a spectacle of them half naked in their shared hall (Stiles now wore nothing but his shorts, and Peter was in a pair of boxers he had snagged on the way out) as Stiles used some metal barbecue skewers to pick his own apartment’s lock, all while Peter groped him from behind.

 

They were inside in under two minutes - it would have been quicker without Peter’s distraction - and Stiles upended his living room cupboard looking for a screwdriver to unscrew his bedroom plug socket.

 

“Do you keep something illicit in all your plug sockets?” Peter asked with a laugh when Stiles cheered his success at locating a little baggy of mephedrone.

 

“Nah, that would be boring,” Stiles answered, setting up some lines for them both, on his bedroom nightstand. Peter didn’t appear to be particularly phased at the idea of snorting the powder - more preoccupied that Stiles appeared to have nothing but $50 and $100 bills in his bottom drawer - than treating drug taking like a complete novelty. In his right mind, Stiles would have been relieved that he wasn’t setting up some vanilla civilian to O.D in his bedroom; but if Stiles was in his right mind, he would never have risked having a civilian in his bedroom at all.

 

The fresh drugs in the bloodstream finally woke up Stiles’ erection, which Peter took extreme interest in, encouraging Stiles to scream the house down as Peter edged him.

 

“You got condoms sweetheart?” Peter asked, lapping his tongue at the sensitive ridge of Stiles’ cock.

 

“Fuck, fuck, yeah. Somewhere. Anywhere. In that drawer, no not that one. Behind the colt. Is that not a condom? Look under the credit card reader.” Stiles would later reflect that it was rather unfortunate that Peter saw three of his guns, a military grade night vision visor, and his (named) credit card reader, but at least their failed pursuit for condoms encouraged them to relocate back to Peter’s apartment, where fewer trade secrets could be shared.

 

Cumming inside Peter’s mouth - even through a condom - felt like a triumph. The man looked like a fucking Adonis, kneeling in front of him with well built muscle that spoke of a protein focused training regime and broad shoulders that looked like they could carry an ox. Stiles didn’t bother restraining himself as he gripped Peter’s hair and bucked wildly into the warm mouth in front of him. The mephedrone in his system now acting like Viagra to keep his erection from flagging, and if it was up to him, he would just keep it in that mouth for the rest of the night.

 

Peter had other ideas, sliding back up to meet his mouth and thoroughly kissing the taste of condom-cherry flavour back into Stiles mouth. Stiles moaned like it was his own cum Peter was feeding him, and he sucked on the man’s tongue dramatically.

 

Peter’s smile was all teeth in response as he kissed down Stiles’ neck. “I bet you taste fucking gorgeous,” he whispered into Stiles’ ear before he went about abusing Stiles’ flesh.

 

In the end, they fucked two more times. The last time Stiles wasn’t even sure either of them could reach orgasm, but they were both so hopped up that doing anything else would have been a waste. At some point of the night, Stiles must have gotten on top and tried to ride Peter into oblivion. He succeeded in the sense that when the drugs crashed, he too slumped down onto Peter’s chest. Stiles would never really know how long Peter was awake while he was asleep, but he hoped that the man’s reduced drug taking habit would mean that he crashed out not too long after Stiles put himself in such a stupidly vulnerable position.

 

* * *

 

Stiles awoke knowing three undeniable facts: the morphine had worn off; he didn’t have his gun; and he had someone’s dick in him.

 

“Shit,” Stiles cursed too loud for someone who _did not_ want the man below him to wake up.

 

Somehow he managed to scrape himself off mattress and man without disturbing either and quickly dragged himself out of the bedroom. His leg was killing him, he had bled through the bandages again (no fucking shit you fucking idiot, seeing how you were clearly fucking riding that guy’s dick last night) but they weren’t as bloody as he had expected. In fact, the bandages were of a different material from what he normally used, and Stiles had a sudden flash-back memory of Peter re-binding his leg for him between their third and fourth rounds.

 

“Shit!” he shouted again, before awkwardly limping into the bedroom to see if Peter was asleep, sighing in relief that the man was apparently deep enough under the drug come down that Stiles’ lack of delicacy went unheard.

 

“Shit, shit, shit,” Stiles whispered a few more times as he hobbled about the room, trying to tailor his contingency plan. The first thing he had to do was get back into his own apartment and take more morphine - only half the dose this time, and no alcohol - so he could be mobile at a decent level. But the list of things he needed to accomplish was growing by the minute as he saw just how much physical evidence (blood, cum, and fingerprints) he had left around the place, and he had no idea how secure this location was.

 

Luckily, when Stiles tracked down his discarded shorts - in a plant pot in Peter’s living room, of course - he discovered that he had actually brought his key with him this time. He grabbed one of Peter’s keys on the way out, so he could close the door soundly behind him, and draw less attention to the situation.

 

Stiles was reminded just how long Peter was in his apartment, when he saw the trail of destruction they had wreaked upon the place. Three of the cupboards in his living room were upended on the floor, his cutlery was all over his kitchen counter tops, and he had left his freezer open so it had defrosted and flooded water all over his tiled floor. He didn’t even remember spending time in the kitchen, but somewhere in the back of his mind, he was pretty sure he gave Peter head while holding ice cubes in his mouth, so the reason _why_ his freezer was demolished was at least understandable.

 

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Stiles chided himself, slamming the freezer door close, and limping back into the bathroom (where his cabinet was still dumped in his sink) and taking a capsule of morphine. It wasn’t going to be enough, not for what he had to do today, and he considered his options.

 

His leg, his ruined apartment, Peter’s apartment, and Peter. They were all loose ends that needed to be tied up or simply cut off. It wasn’t a day he was looking forward to.

 

Gingerly he returned to his kitchen. Thankfully, it wasn’t his fridge proper that he’d destroyed, so he retrieved two of the little bottles that sat at the back. He had to dip into his cache of emergency needles, leaving only one for next time, before picking up the bottle that read BOTOX and inserting the 9mm gauge needle.

 

Peter had apparently done a good job wrapping his leg last night, and when he revealed the wound, for the most part, the stitches stuck.

 

“A fucking miracle” he whispered to himself, as he inserted the needle just under the flesh and pumped the steroids into the muscle mass. Stiles had lost the ability to react to needle pain - too much ink, medication and drugs for it to trouble him - but the way his muscles instantly spasmed in response was a deeply uncomfortable hurt. A few minutes later, and the flesh went more rigid, and his muscles naturally pulled less on the stitches. The botox also deadened the nerve endings, and the deep, constant ache abated at last. He set aside the BOTOX and wrapped his leg in a waterproof plastic, so he could shower.

 

Dressed in crisp, white shirt and tailored black dress pants, Stiles felt more ready for the day. He had only been in his apartment thirty minutes, but it was enough to get him into game mode. On the way out the door, he collected his gun, its holster, a suit jacket to cover said gun holster, his briefcase, the second needle, and the bottle of Propofol. The latter, he secured in the corner of his briefcase, its milky colour barely visible through the brown bottle. When Stiles eased himself into Peter’s apartment, padding across the livingroom floor as quietly as possible, his hand hesitated over his gun. It had a silencer on the muzzle, so he could use it if needed, but it wasn’t something he wanted to revert to.

 

Thankfully Peter was still asleep when he opened the bedroom door, and Stiles let out a deep sigh of relief. His day was finally starting to look up. Stiles withdrew 10ml of Propofol with the syringe, and slid the tapered needle into Peter’s upper arm. The man didn’t even react to the needle going in, and Stiles watched as he dragged a little bit of blood into the gauge, before pushing the whole thing into the man’s blood stream.

 

He stood there for five minutes counting out how long it should take for the active agent to affect him, with Peter already asleep there should be no visible effects. But any negative reactions to the drug would show itself in the first few minutes. Respiratory apnea, anaphylactic shock, epileptic fit, toxicity.... Stiles ran through his possible responses if any of them happened, one hand hovered above his gun, the other was ready to reach into his briefcase for an epi pen or a ventilation tube. Seven minutes later and Peter proved himself nothing but asleep, and Stiles took a second deep sigh of relief.

 

“Well thank fuck for that.”

Carefully, he withdrew another 20ml and topped up the dose. Peter was a heavy man and would metabolise the drug with reasonable ease, but, with this, Stiles had given himself enough hours to deal with the apartment.

 

The first thing he did was get out a radio metre, and scoped the place for bugs. He had a mild panic attack when he discovered wires running from Peter’s cupboard along his skirting board, but thankfully it turned out to be an old connection for a TV that was no longer hooked up. However, just because the room wasn’t bugged didn’t mean Peter was who he claimed to be.

 

Finding the man’s phone wasn’t hard. Unlocking it was even easier as Peter didn’t have a passcode; that either meant the man really was a civilian, or this was a prop phone in place to extend his cover. This was the problem with spies - you knew what lengths someone would go to to maintain a cover. He flicked to messages and scrolled back to the earliest conversation: two years ago, a message to “Derek” saying “new number, pass it on to your mum. - Peter”. Stiles chewed his lip, two years worth of backdating on a phone wasn’t the hardest thing to do. He walked into the kitchen where he spied some family photos and pulled them off the fridge.

 

The first featured nine kids of various ages. He flipped it over and read off the names and ages: Peter was one of the youngest, at six. At the top it read “the Hale cousins get together, 1977” in a curly handwritten script. Thirty-seven seemed about right for how the man looked, but he filed the information away to double check. He grabbed another photo, a very Peter-looking woman with a very little baby in her arms. “Talia & Laura - 24 & 2 hours old - 1982”.

 

Stiles’ scrolled to find “Talia” in the phone, but there was nothing, however, he did find “Hale HQ” and a home phone number, which appeared to have called Peter at least once a week since the phone had been logging calls. “Laura” had its own entry, and the most recent text was a photo of a serious looking man about Stiles age and the message, “Derek is this impressed with your suggestion”.

 

He paced the living room a little bit thinking about the situation, they seemed like a normal family. It would have taken a creative genius to plot this much detail into a back story. Stiles thought about his mother’s own American passport, and the first time he met “Auntie Caroline”, who had a knife strapped to her stomach and had been bleeding out in the back of his mother’s jeep. Families weren’t always how they appeared.

 

The living room had two desks. One was in an ornate dark wood, and had nothing but a classic, metal typewriter; the other was part of a pine book shelf and had a desktop computer on it. The typewriter looked important but could be nothing but table dressing. Computers were much better at hiding secrets.

 

Peter’s computer password could be circumnavigated simply by opening it up in safe mode and accessing all privileges, but Stiles took note that his password hint was Cora.  Stiles opened up his own laptop on the desk next to the computer and linked them. In one pane, he looked up the records of Peter Hale (all of which check out with the photo). He flicked through the subsequent details of the other Hales. Talia was his sister. Her eldest, Laura, was only nine years younger than Peter, with a brother Derek, and the youngest sister was Cora. On a whim, Stiles turned back to the desktop computer and tried Cora’s birthday for the password, 12/11/1988, but it came out dud. He tried a couple of combinations of her name and the date, but he still couldn’t crack it. It didn’t really matter; he was already in the computer. Maybe he was being superstitious, but Stiles just felt like cracking  Peter’s totally boring computer password would have been proof that he was _really and truly_ a civilian.

 

Stiles accessed Peter’s desktop and laughed at the wolf screensaver the man had uploaded. It was definitely something sourced off google, and it was as endearing as it was tacky. Two wolves sat at a lake’s edge - one white, one black. Stiles rolled his eyes, adding it to the evidence that Peter was _definitely_ a civilian. He opened up the internet browser to search for porn; Peter’s porn specifically. Porn wasn’t something people thought to fill in their internet history when trying to backdate computers.

 

A quick sweep of his almost insultingly easy to access personal computer showed Peter had little to hide beyond a truly shocking amount of twink porn. “Well… That explains some things.”

 

He clipped through some more of the internet browsing history, ran Peter’s emails through a filter that highlighted anything that mentioned one of the buzzwords that Stiles had preprogrammed to treat as suspicious (government, Russia, guns, ammo, etc.). Peter was apparently a paid up member of the Democrat Party, and the closest thing to Russia Peter had been talking about was the Olympic gold medal Russian figure skater who apparently had a ‘fantastic ass’.

 

Finally, Stiles accepted that it was _enough_. Enough that he should let Peter carry on living his twee little life. With his nice family, and party membership, gay porn habit, and desktop background with wolves on it.

 

Stiles sighed. Peter would not have been his first or last kill. It wouldn’t have even been the first time he shot someone who he had fucked, but so much of this felt like Stiles’ fault. If he had just kept his head screwed on and stayed out of Peter’s - incredibly hot and well built - arms, then Peter’s life wouldn’t have been affected. He would never have been at risk - not from Stiles anyway.

 

“You need to get a hold of yourself,” Stiles chided himself, stroking the stiffness of his thigh and packing up his laptop. He still had hours worth of work in front of him. Cleaning Peter’s apartment down to remove his fingerprints, cum and blood - without making it look like a cleaning crew had been in there - wouldn’t be an easy job.

 

Halfway through cleaning, Stiles dosed Peter again, less worried about the reaction this time. It wasn’t half as fun cleaning a crime scene when you weren’t hiding a murder, but Stiles consoled himself with the fact that he actually didn’t want to shoot Peter.

 

When Stiles was done, he had the problem of what to do with Peter. He didn’t want to leave a note - if he was very honest, he hoped that Peter would think the whole thing was a twisted fever dream - but if he didn’t say _something_ about his absence Peter might get curious. And a curious person poked holes in cover stories. Still wearing his gloves, he grabbed a pen and wrote - with his left hand - a short message on the back of an envelope about needing to head off for work again. He signed it with a T. for emphasis.

 

Stiles looked at the typewriter again and saw a photo of a little girl and Peter holding hands. Looking closer, he saw that behind them was the words “Arizona Wolf Sanctuary”, and a thought struck him. Deftly he pulled out his laptop and looked up the website for the sanctuary, tracking down the link that said “Adopt a Wolf”. Halfway down the page he found a black wolf called Bluebell with a giant Adopt Me Today button next to it… and a text box saying, “Bluebelle is incredibly grateful to her friends: Ally Brown, Eleanor Clifford, Cameron Fairweather and Cora Hale.” In a flash, Stiles turned on the desktop again. Once he reached the profile screen, Stiles typed the word “Bluebelle” into the box.

 

The password was accepted, and the dated machine began to load up the desktop.

 

“You beautifully sad man, Peter Hale. What the fucking hell.” Stiles sat back and stared at the wolf picture and felt like crying.

 

Peter Hale was a normal man. A normal man who met a not-very-normal neighbour, and had sex with him. Peter Hale was a normal man who was currently drugged up the gills with a medical grade anesthetic because Stiles, a very _not normal_ man had accidentally got his stupid reckless life all over him.

 

“I need to get out of here,” Stiles said to himself, shoving “Tyler’s” note in his pocket

 

As he shut down the computer, it was hard to remember why it had felt so important to figure out Peter’s password. With the efficiency he should have shown, Stiles finished clean up. Once he’d removed any trace that he had ever been there, he locked the door behind him and went back to his flooded apartment.

* * *

 

Stiles left the apartment that night, but it took him a week to decide that he wouldn’t liquidate it. It was what he should do, as it was incredibly close to being compromised, but he had too much invested in the place.

 

Stiles should have taken his mother’s ashes if he was going to leave for good, but he didn’t, so that was that.

 

“One more time,” he told himself on the flight out to Dallas, where he would finally arrive at his predetermined hide out. “One more time. And then I’ll let it go.”

 

He wasn’t entirely sure if he was lying to himself, but it helped him put the issue to bed.

  


**Author's Note:**

> Warnings (spoilers) -  
> Stiles has a gunshot wound which is bleeding and he has to tend to it a few times. Including stitches. No gore though.  
> Stiles self medicates for the pain with morphine, alcohol and party pills. They have sex when Stiles is under the influence, but in no way is this noncon - everyone is VERY HAPPY about the sex.  
> Stiles takes risks which could kill him, he is not actually suicidal however.  
> Stiles uses a drug to keep Peter sleeping while he does damage control on being there. Peter doesn't consent to this, but it does not hurt him.
> 
> \------
> 
> Thank you for reading! I hope my wonderful giftee enjoys it! And anyone else who had a look too (:  
> I'm polishing off some of the sequel now, so will hopefully post soon (:
> 
> ALSO THANKYOU TO MAL aka. writersareliars FOR BETA WORK. I AM FOREVER IN HIS DEBT.


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